


Ichor & Oil

by RiverTam



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Amnesia, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Gen, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Memory Loss, Past Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow (only referenced), Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Robot Bucky, Scrap Collector Steve, Skinny Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-03-27 18:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13886235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverTam/pseuds/RiverTam
Summary: They lay like carcasses across the landscape, giant steel skeletons telling the haunting story of a war that few remembered – and those who did, they made a point of forgetting. Dull gray angular frames jutted out of the colorless dust, so immense that it was impossible to tell their size on scale alone. Strewn around them were girders as thick as a man was tall, panels the size of passenger aircraft, and the curved, knife-like blades of gargantuan turbines. The rangefinder in his goggles reported the distance as two miles away… surely it was wrong.  He had to be closer.  The downed behemoths couldn’t be that big, could they?Humanity moved underground centuries ago, fleeing the devastation spreading rapidly across the planet's surface after a war that's long since been forgotten.  Steve makes his money venturing out into this deadly, silent wasteland, scavenging materials and parts to sell in the underground markets.  One day, he stumbles across something - someone- that will change his life forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by Paint_Stained_Heart. 
> 
> [Inspired by this artwork by DeanDraws. Thank you for letting me use your amazing work!](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/image/162064163120)
> 
>   

**CHAPTER ONE**

They lay like carcasses across the landscape, giant steel aircraft skeletons telling the haunting story of a war that few remembered – and those who did, they made a point of forgetting.  Dull gray angular frames jutted out of the colorless dust, so immense that it was impossible to tell their size on scale alone. Strewn around them were girders as thick as a man was tall, panels the size of passenger aircraft, and the curved, knife-like blades of gargantuan turbines.

He leaned over on the long rod he’d found earlier that day and squinted blearily through the tan-tinted atmosphere at the jumble of wreckage stabbing out of the plains in front of him.  The rangefinder in his goggles reported the distance as two miles away… surely it was wrong. He had to be closer. The downed behemoths couldn’t be _that_ big, could they?

His feet ached from walking through the punishing heat of the day and his clothes were weighed down by the fine grains of you-don’t-want-to-know that gradually worked their way in between the loose fibers of his desert robes.   _Anything for a breeze,_ he thought, then laughed soundlessly and shook his head before starting forward.  _Nevermind, I don’t want to know what it’s going to kick up into the air._

His breath whistled quietly through the filters of his mask, uncomfortably close to the sound his lungs used to make as a child.  Only his forehead was exposed, everything else covered under his mask, goggles, or the loose, flowing garments one had to wear or risk deadly sunburn and dehydration.  Various straps and harnesses wound their way over his desert robes, securing pouches, a large satchel, and a crossbow to his willowy frame.

The oppressive silence was broken only by the strange squeak-crunch of his boots through the dust, a sound texture he’d never get used to.

A little under an hour later, he cautiously reached out a gloved hand and laid it flat against the windworn steel… or titanium, or… whatever it was.  Chances were it was more valuable than anything else he’d find in is lifetime – combined – but the tools to cut it up and the machinery to move it simply didn’t exist, not in any form he could ever dream of affording.

The remnants of four massive callsign characters stretched up the panel in front of him hundreds of feet into the air, paint flaking off and fading due to age and abrasion from the frequent sand storms.  He tilted his head to the side just the same way he did every time he made the trip out to this site.

IN-03

Snorting quietly, he shook his head.  No one knew what they meant, not anymore.  Or, rather, no one cared. The end result was the same, either way.

It took an alert mind, flexible joints, and a fair amount of strength to navigate through the wreckage… as well as both feet and both hands.  He stabbed the rod firmly into the sand next to the opening he’d chosen to enter through and shivered reflexively as he stepped into the shadow of the hulking mass of metal.

Spilled-open shipping crates, undetonated ordnance, and the twisted remains of several small, ancient aircraft… this had to have been a storage deck.  Marveling at the sleek, almost insect-like shapes of the aircraft, he slowly climbed his way deeper into the wreck. It took him enough time to place each hand and foot that most other people would have given up and left, but he knew from experience that being even a finger’s width out of place could cost a scavenger their life.

So far, he’d been to this particular spot in the wreckage twice before, and it never ceased to chill him to the bone whenever he wondered who built the… things, and who shot them down.  It’s not like they didn’t have aircraft, landhoppers, even exospheric vessels, but these giants from a forgotten past were unlike anything else he’d ever seen before.

The past three hundred years – his best guess as to the wrecked vessel’s age, since he hadn’t found anything more recent inside – had left the strewn-about ancient supplies pretty well picked-over, but he had an eye for hidden treasures, as well as for the places one might hide those treasures.

Three hours of careful maneuvering and spidering his way through the tilted wreck finally got him to the beacon he’d set for himself last time.  He took a moment to stuff a protein bar into his mouth, swallowing it down thickly with as little water as possible before wiping his face on the back of his sleeve and studying the ghostly, skeletal behemoth around him.  Not much had changed since he’d been there six months ago...

_Huh.  That’s weird._

A panel was missing from the wall, or, rather, it was now hanging haphazardly by a small row of bolts after the others had been removed.  The panel peeled away from the wall like the lid of a can, bent at an odd angle where the strength of the material finally yielded to its weight.

Further inspection of the panel told him more: it was lined with a strange, dense, heavy material that prevented his instruments from reading anything behind it.  It seemed malleable and even soft to the touch, though, and he carefully carved off a chunk of it. It was spongy under his fingers but strangely resistant when he squeezed it; the subtle sheen of it reminded him of the neoprene knee brace he’d had to wear for months as a kid.

Shrugging, he stuffed it in his bag.  Worth looking into and seeing if it could sell.

He wasn’t sure why anyone had bothered pulling the panel away, since the space beyond just contained more of the same scattered, colorless junk that the rest of the wreck held.  Unable to resist getting first pick, though, he hopped through the hole onto what had once been a wall and started gently rifling through the jumbled heap of stuff.

Guns – useless here.  Sound was deadly in the plains, more so the louder it was.  One box spilled open at his feet and he crouched down to scuff through the shiny gray fist-sized vacuum packs.  When he lifted one up and turned it over to read the label, he leaned back and sat down _hard_ on the wall under him.

It took him a few minutes to decipher the expiration date, a relic of the past when perishable food still existed, but when he did, the breath left his lungs in a hollow hiss.  Four hundred and thirty-eight years ago last month.   _Probably not still edible, then._

He tossed the ‘Meal, Ready-to-Eat’ to the side and squinched up his face as he scanned the rest of the room for something worth his while.  The oddly-shaped pile of rubbish further into the room caught his attention among the other oddly-shaped piles of rubbish mostly because something looking vaguely like a robotic hand poked out from under a box.

Robotics – _anything_ robotic – could have him set for _life._

Getting to the pile proved to be a bit of an endeavor, and he had to use extra care on the new, unstable surface.  Once, his foot slipped off a small steel box and sent it skittering down to slam into a girder, and he froze in place for several heart-stopping minutes before he could convince himself he wasn’t going to die.

Moving with excruciating care, he worked from the top of the pile down, shifting each piece of junk, examining it for potential value, then setting it aside or putting it in his bag if he could haul it out with him.  Finally, he levered a large panel of sheet metal upward, biting down on the grunt of exertion that tried to slip free, and ever-so-slowly slid it off to the side.

What he saw in front of him punched the breath out of his lungs for the second time that day.

Complete with the exception of a left arm sheared halfway between the elbow and shoulder joint, the android was awkwardly sprawled facedown on top of some ordnance crates.  Hovering over the scuffed, stained, once-white plates of the android’s body, the man leaned forward and held his breath as he tried to read the tiny lettering across the plate under the androids neck.

His eyes flicked up when he noticed a softly pulsing blue light visible through a crack in the back of the android’s skull paneling.

Swallowing down the dry, tight feeling threatening to cut off his air, he slowly leaned closer to peer at the light-

-and froze when the distaint ululating howl of a Reaper echoed through the carcass of the massive aircraft.

Reaching up, he pressed a finger to the emergency communicator wrapped around his ear and cleared his throat.

“Bruce?” he whispered as loudly as he dared.  The Reapers were coming. He was out of options.

The answer came after a few thuds, crashes, muffled curses, and some scuffling. _“Steve?  Are you okay?  What happened? Did you get hurt?”_

“No, no, I’m fine.”  He swallowed again. “I need you to bring the landhopper.”

_“That doesn’t sound fine.  Can you walk?”_

He didn’t dare take his eyes off that impossible blue light.  “I can walk. Bruce, we… We got a live one.”

Silence stretched through the air, until finally Bruce swore quietly. _“I’m on my way.  You armed?”_

“Yeah.”

_“Get somewhere defensible.  And… Steve?”_

“Yeah?”

_“Don’t be dead when I get there.”_

“Then get here soon.”  He unclipped his crossbow from his back as a sharp _clang_ reverberated through the structure.   _Shit.  They’re here._ A quick glance behind him told him the android was still just as lifeless as when he’d found it.  Pacing sideways until he could duck behind cover, he checked the charge mag on his crossbow and settled in to guard his precious quarry.  



	2. Chapter 2

Bruce, taciturn and reserved at best, didn’t say a single word as they fled the horde of Reapers.

Even when they’d made it to the safety of the surface port and the huge blast doors thudded shut behind them, Bruce sat with his hands on the landhopper’s controls for several long breaths before he straightened his shoulders, swung the chunky cargo vessel up into the air, and silently navigated the LED-lit corridors until he gently coasted to a stop at a nondescript door.

He helped Steve haul in the massive box into which they’d shoved the android, then turned back to Steve, gave him a deeply unhappy look, and sighed.

Pausing with his hand on the frame of the door, Bruce half-turned to look over his shoulder.  “I won’t protect you if the Keepers find you – find _that_.”

“They won’t.”

“Promise me, Steve.”  The urgency in Bruce’s voice was unnerving, and Steve raised his eyebrows in surprise.  The haggard scientist dragged his hands through his salt-and-pepper curly hair, his face falling, and sighed again.  “You’re… all I have left, you know. Only one that doesn’t think I’m crazy. Or dangerous. Or both.”

“Nah, you’re only dangerous if I get between you and your coffee.”  Steve flashed him a grin and waved him off with one hand while the other undid the buckle for his crossbow’s harness.  “Thanks for the rescue.”

“Don’t do it again.  You know better.”

Humming dismissively, Steve shrugged out of his robe-like desert gear and hung it on a peg near the door.  Underneath his desert gear, he was wearing a dust-colored t-shirt and dust-colored Keeper surplus pants… everything ended up dust-colored eventually.  Steve plucked at his shirt and chewed his lip a bit before a fruitless attempt to brush off a bit more of the dust.

He toed his boots off, set them below his desertwear, and roughly scrubbed his fingers through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to dislodge the sand and grit that never seemed to go away after a trip into the Wastes.   A glance at the clock above his door told him he’d have to pull it down and adjust it again soon – it always ran slow.

Still, he’d made it back before curfew, and as long as his door was closed and locked and the Monitors could see at least one heat signature inside, they probably wouldn’t call the Keepers on him.

Probably.

He levered the lid off the box taking up most of his available floorspace and hauled the android out with a quiet _hup._

Scrawny as he looked, it was far too easy for people to underestimate him, a trait that he often used to his advantage when travelling to some of the… less savory… trade markets.  He shifted the android around a bit, grabbed it tightly around the waist, and took a half-step back to steady himself. It had to be comical, a small guy like him carrying a droid that had at least six inches on him, possibly more.

His workbench was too small to fit an android the size of a tall, strong adult male, and his desk certainly wasn’t sturdy enough.

With a sigh, he shuffled over to his bed and did his best to gently lay the android down on top of it.  “At least you’ll be comfortable,” he told it, then laughed awkwardly.

The box folded down easily, collapsing into a size he could stow under his bed.  He had no earthly idea what he’d use it for, but he balked at the thought of throwing _anything_ away.

Rocking back on his heels, Steve scrabbled blindly along the edge of his desk until he finally managed to snag a microfiber cloth and the can of QuiKlean that had somehow rolled under his bed.  He spritzed the cloth thoroughly, then got to work on the grubby chest plate of his newest project.

Dirt, dust, oil, and something that smelled like… burned sugar? came away with every rough swipe.  Finally, he cleared enough grime away to read the emblem stenciled on the right side of the droid’s chest.

“Huh.”  Steve tilted his head and wormed his shoulders around to get a better angle.  “Stank- no, _Stark_ Industries.  Wonder who they were.”  Shrugging, he kept working at the chest plate until it was clean, then moved on to the remaining dull white panels.

The seams between the android’s paneling followed a certain logic, splitting where muscles naturally overlapped in a human or integrated as access ports for joints or other delicate mechanisms.  Some of the panels turned out to be light gray instead of white, and Steve found himself silently thanking Sand and Sun that the designer had the foresight to line all the joints with a dustproof, flexible ribbing.  When he finally looked at the clock again, he nearly dropped the cloth in surprise – he’d been at it for over an hour.

His stomach gurgled unhappily, and Steve rolled his eyes, lurched to his feet, stepped over to the tiny refrigerator, and pulled out a glass container full of the weird colorless mush his neighbor to the left kept pawning off on him.  At least it was free, and it filled the stomach well enough.

As he did his best to choke down the slop, a dull thud rumbled through the tenement and sent the cords and wires dangling next to his worktable swinging gently.  The air compressor rocked into the wall with a hollow clank, and Steve gave it a halfhearted glare before he returned to his bland meal. What he would give to be able to move out of the Deep City and into a smaller block with more stable foundations.  Somewhere further away from a fault line or magma vent, somewhere that the constant, pressurized humidity didn’t discolor his walls with mildew and make his devices fritz out if he sneezed at them wrong.

He set his dishes in the tiny sink in his toaster-oven-and-a-hot-plate kitchenette and shuffled back over to his desk to fire up his laptop.  When the ventilation kicked on, Steve sneezed violently and cursed under his breath – how did it never stay turned _off?_  He scooped up an eraser from the small pile of drawing supplies and chucked it at the thermostat… and missed by several inches.  Grumbling quietly, he stomped over to the thermostat and poked at the glowing screen until it _finally_ shut off.  Maybe that’d buy him a few more days until his next asthma attack.

His nose tickled and his sinuses burned, then gave way to another explosive sneeze.  Sniffing, Steve wiped a hand under his nose and turned back to his laptop and loaded up the command line.  Not for the first time, he wished that his laptop wasn’t confined to the desk by its broken hinge and kaput battery.

With a tired sigh, he walked back over to the android, rolled it over onto its face, and pried off what he hoped was – and it was, to his relief – an access panel at the base of its neck.  “Now, that’s odd, what’s that doing there?” he muttered, frowning at the incongruously modern data port. “What _are_ you?”

He blindly grabbed the data cable hanging down like a vine next to his worktable, then swore when it wouldn’t reach the extra foot-and-change.  It took him a few minutes of turning his tiny apartment upside down to find an extender cable – it had to be here _somewhere_ – but after several minutes of fiddling with cables and adapters, he finally had the android hooked up to his laptop.  He clicked the jointed cable connector into a ninety-degree angle, then rolled the android back over so it was facing the ceiling.

The old laptop pinged quietly: connection acquired.  Steve scrambled over, tossed himself into the desk chair, grabbed frantically at the desk when the caster wheels sent him rolling further, and peered at the scrolling lines of code filling the screen.

“Hasn’t been booted up in…”  He trailed off, blinked, scratched at the back of his neck, and blinked again.  “Sand an’ _Sun.”_

The last hardware access timestamp was from well over four hundred and fifty years ago.  A flashing cursor caught his eye: INITIATE SYSTEM? For lack of anything better to do, Steve slowly typed in YES and hit Enter.

“What’re you running on, pal?” he asked, baffled.  “Micronuclear? Your power cells should’ve run out _centuries_ ago.”

He wasn’t expecting an answer and nearly jumped out of his skin when something clicked deep in the android’s chest, followed by the quiet whirr of a cooling fan spinning up.

“Seriously?  You’re air-cooled?  Ugh, what the _sand,_ man.”  Steve shook his head and laughed at himself.  “With how ancient you are, I should be thanking Sand and Sun that there’s even a functional computer left to interface with.”

A few more fans kicked to life somewhere deep in the android’s massive torso, and Steve scooted forward in his chair so he could press his palms against the exhilarating thrum of the unknown hiding under the scuffed white plastanium.

The soft blue light he’d seen through the back of its cracked-open skull now slowly bloomed to life behind the smooth, flat panel forming its face… or where a face would be, on a less ancient android.  Two silvery-blue orbs gently illuminated in place of eyes, then flickered as if it… blinked.

Something electronic, distorted, and vaguely resembling a robotic groan gurgled out of the android.

It didn’t respond when Steve waved his hand in front of its face… thing, so he rolled back over to his laptop just in time to see the readout _completely_ freak out.  It couldn’t display the data stream from the android in any way that made sense, and the normally tidy lines of code were now replaced with edge-to-edge nonstandard characters.

Steve pursed his lips, frowned at the android, looked back at his laptop, and closed down the data stream display.  Perhaps another program would work… he opened one that he was still tinkering with, one that he’d used to hack into a few more modern devices so that he could sell them on the underground market.  Once he had the connection reestablished, Steve flowed through the commands to display the realtime data stream.

“What the _shit.”_

The android was running on a quantum engine – a rudimentary, early-days quantum engine, but a quantum engine nonetheless.  Steve knew for a _fact_ that quantum engine technology hadn’t been around for more than two hundred years.

A quiet clank drew his attention – the android’s left arm clumsily flapped about as it tried to push itself into a sitting position.  Its glossy head wobbled drunkenly, then rocked back and rolled to the right to face toward Steve.

 **“Primary memory unit malfunction.”**  Its voice was slightly garbled, distorted the same way the groan had been.

“…what?”

 **“Primary memory unit malfunction,”** it repeated, and one eye dulled slightly as it shifted position to better balance on one hand.   **“Requesting repair.  Primary memory unit** **_malfunction._ ** **”**  The last word was stressed and drawn out, as if the android was speaking to a slow child.

_It’s giving me the hairy eyeball.  There’s an ancient robot in my apartment and it’s giving me the hairy eyeball._

“…yeah, pal, a head wound’ll do that to you.”

 **“Requesting repair.”**  The droid’s head slowly turned back as it looked down at its legs, then back up at Steve.   **“Location unidentified.”**

Steve blinked dumbly at it for a few seconds, then shook himself.  “Location is, um, my apartment. Unit 1918, Block 107, New York Haven.  We’re a few miles underground.”

The droid nodded as if that made sense.   **“Unable to communicate with Central Command.”**

“I… don’t know how to break this to you, pal, but there isn’t a such thing as Central Command, not that I know of.  I mean, we got the Keepers and the Monitors and Oversight, but… no Central Command.”

Nothing changed in the droid’s eyes, but Steve had the feeling it was frowning.  It stayed quiet for nearly a minute before looking back up at him. **“Requesting time and date.”**

“August… sand, what day is it?”  Steve craned his neck to see the calendar glowing on his wall, then checked the clock on his laptop.  “The 17th. Around half past eight at night.”

With something resembling a sigh, the droid shook its head.   **“Requesting year.”**

“Oh!  2653. You’ve been powered off for a while.”

The droid leaned forward and then, in an oddly human gesture, rubbed its remaining hand over its face.  It dropped its arm to rest on its knee and hesitated before saying, **“Query requested.”**

Something unpleasant settled into the pit of Steve’s stomach, but he nodded.

**“The war – it’s… over?”**

“Given that I have no idea what war you’re asking about, I’d hazard a guess and say, yeah, it’s over.  Also, you… you don’t have to ask me permission to ask a question.”

 **“Negative; defies orders.”**  The android’s shoulders shifted strangely and it plucked at the thin fabric on Steve’s bed.

“You don’t have to follow orders anymore.  Mine, or anyone else’s.”

 **“Quer…”**  It cut itself off mid-word, then raised its head up to look at the ceiling. **“Are you my new officer?”**

“Officer?  I- no. No, I’m not.  I’m just a scrap collector.”

Something crackled out of the droid – _did he just snort?_   **“Scrap.”**

“…yeah.  I found you in the wreckage of some pretty damn big… I’m not even sure what they are.”

 **“Helicarriers,”** the droid supplied in its bland, electronic voice, then straightened slightly as if startled.   **“Primary memory unit malfunction.  Unable to load mission parameters.”**

The unpleasant weight in his stomach developed into mild nausea.  “You’re a combat drone, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and the android offered no answer.  None was needed. “Oh, _sand._  Of all the things I had to dig up.”

 **“Former combat drone.”**  Steve blinked at the android when it quietly corrected him.  It shrugged slightly and continued picking at the bedspread. **“You said the war was over.”**

“Y- yeah, I guess I did.  So, um. I’m Steve. You got a name?”

 **“Bravo Division.  Charlie Kilo Company, Unit One,”** it answered immediately, and swung its legs off the bed so it could rotate its right shoulder toward Steve.   **“Abbreviated designation: B.CK-1.”**

Steve peered at the faded gray letters and the barcode beneath them, then chuckled.  “Almost looks like an ‘I.’” Apparently, shitty typography wasn’t a new phenomenon. Something clicked together in his head, and he laughed.  “B-CK-I. Bucky!”

The smooth blue orbs flattened into lines.   **“Designation incorrect.”**

“Well, fuck that.  Designation override.”

The lines winked out for a few seconds, then the android shook its head slightly.   **“Override confirmed.”**  The android ran its – _his, not an it, come on, Steve_ – _his_ hand over his head, then froze when he felt the crack.   **“Damage sustained.”**

“Yeah.  Head wound, remember?”

**“…primary memory-”**

“Yeah, got it.  So, what _do_ you remember?”

Bucky’s frozen silence was answer enough.

“Oooookay.”

Bucky blinked-fizzled-flickered his eyes again, then looked down at his left arm.   **“Damage sustained.”**

“Yeah, I can fix that.”  When Bucky looked back at him, Steve shrugged.  “I think I can. Might have to be creative with a few of the components, but… I can get you functional again, no problem.”

**“Define parameter: functional.”**

“Two arms.”

**“Two arms not required for primary function.”**

“Define primary function,” Steve shot back, crossing his arms.

Bucky’s shoulders dropped and his head tilted to the side, then his eyes winked out for a few seconds.   **“Classification: combat drone.  Synthetic soldier.”**  He paused, then looked down at his large, white-paneled feet.   **“I kill things.”**

“What- no, hey-”

 **“I kill things,”** Bucky repeated, and somehow his quiet, slightly-scratchy monotone had a pained tinge to it.   **“Men, women, and children.  Targets of Project Insight impossible to neutralize through primary program.”**

“You’re… a robot assassin?”   _And what the sand is Project Insight?_ Steve really should have paid more attention in school, instead of filling his notebooks with fanciful doodles.

He didn’t respond at first, but when he did, he sounded almost sad.   **“Easy to program a drone for complex operations.  No provisions or rest required. Minimal heat signature.  Able to sustain more damage than human operator.”**

Steve winced and wiped again at his runny nose.  “Wow, that was… that made a disturbing amount of sense.”

 **“It’s war,”** the droid said simply.   **“You’re supposed to win.”**

“At what cost, though?”

Bucky didn’t reply.

After staring at the mesmerizing quantum fields whirling over his laptop screen for longer than was probably socially acceptable for organic _or_ synthetic life forms, Steve rubbed his face and sighed.  “How’re your power levels?”

Bucky cocked his head to the side as if thinking, then said, **“Twelve percent.  Recharge required.  A standard civilian power outlet is sufficient.”**

“Okay, well.”  Vacating his desk chair, Steve patted the seat of it and pointed at it.  “I need to get some sleep soon, so…”

**“I can sit on the floor to charge.”**

“Sit on the- Sand and _Sun,_ what are you, a _slave?_ Sit on the _floor_ , come _on_.”  Steve scoffed and rolled his eyes.  “Get your plastanium ass in the chair, you big lunk.”

**“Comfort is not-”**

“Ass.  Chair. Get.”

Bucky pointed to the cable sticking out of the back of his neck.

“G’head, pull it out, it’s fine.  Not like I’m going to get anything useful out of the uplink, I don’t have the computing power to understand how your brain works anyway.”

With an odd, garbled grunt and a one-eyed blink, Bucky tugged the cable free from the nape of his neck, then lurched to his feet.  He swung his arm out for balance and nearly tipped to the side when he forgot to compensate for the missing weight of his left arm.

“Easy, there.”  Steve reached out to him and guided him into the chair.  “Alright, power down if you want.” He quickly cobbled together a charging cable from a few of the adapters he’d used for the data uplink, and stabbed the power brick into the free socket under his desk before handing the other end of the cable to Bucky.  “My amperage isn’t fantastic, but…”

A green light winked on at the hollow of Bucky’s throat when he got the cable in place.   **“It is sufficient.”**

“Okay, well… holler if you need anything.  I’ll just be in the bathroom.”

Bucky followed Steve with his eyes as he turned to leave, then so quietly as to nearly be inaudible, said, **“Thank you.”**

When Steve trudged back into the large single room of his apartment, Bucky was… asleep, somehow, leaned over onto the desk with his arm curled under his head.  The green light on his throat pulsed gently, the soft shadows of his arm fading in and out on the dull gray surface below it.

Lights out and thin blankets pulled up to his chin, Steve let out a pent-up breath, rolled his head to the side to look at the strange android one last time, and bit his lip.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” he said quietly, then rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Implied/referenced dubcon, blink and you'll miss it  
> \- Vaguely referenced past Steve/Brock

****Steve flailed himself awake and fell flat on his face as he accidentally launched himself off of his narrow mattress.  Someone was pounding insistently on his door, and Bucky was still… charging at his desk.

Swearing under his breath and rubbing the knee he’d landed on, Steve jabbed his finger into the intercom button next to his door.  “WHAT.”

_“It’s Keeper Wilson.”_

“Fuck, okay, did I use too much water last night?  Sorry, I got covered in-”

_“Cut the shit, Steve.  We both know that’s not why I’m here.”_

His blood ran cold and he spun to look at Bucky.  The android slowly levered himself up off the table and turned to face him.   **“…Steve?”**  His voice was dialed back to barely a whisper.

Releasing the intercom button, Steve scrambled to coil up the cables he’d pulled out last night.  “Oh, sand, can you go hide in the bathroom or something? I’m supposed to go straight to the Customs Exchange with my hauls, if they find out I brought anything back _home_ with me, let alone something _illegal_ …”

 **“Breathe.”**  The android rested one huge, solid hand between Steve’s shoulder blades and stood with significantly more grace than he’d had last night.   **“Let me know when it’s safe.”**

“Thank you.  Sorry.”

Once Bucky was out of sight, Steve took one last cursory look around his tiny apartment, then pulled open the door.

Wilson stood outside, arms crossed and one foot slowly tapping away on the rusted platform.  His neatly-trimmed hair and goatee would have marked him out of place in Steve’s block if it hadn’t been for the durable, lightweight navy blue tactical armor he wore, the white stylized five-tipped sun of the Keepers emblazoned on his chest.  “Took you long enough.”

“Keeper,” Steve greeted him tiredly, and stepped back to let Wilson in.  He wasn’t expecting Wilson’s chocolate-brown hand to shove the door shut as soon as he stepped inside, nor every one of his communications devices to be powered off and placed in plain view on his desk.

“Officially, Keeper Wilson is here to reprimand you for removing classified materials from a Level Eight salvage site without reporting it to customs.”  Wilson crossed his arms and leaned back against Steve’s worktable.

“…and unofficially?”

"Steve, we grew up playing botball together in the Lower Corridors. Your buddy Sam is wondering what in Sand and Sun you've gotten yourself into."

“My buddy Sam hasn’t been coming around since Keeper Wilson took his place ten years ago,” Steve said flatly, and Sam looked away.

“Job makes it tough.”

“That’s not a fucking excuse.”

“I know.”

“So.”  Sam glanced around Steve’s tenement and his eyes settled on a new mold patch; they tightened slightly before he looked away, but he didn’t say anything.  Steve had flat-out refused Sam’s offer of a room in his Upper Level condo so many times that he’d finally given up trying. “You wanna tell me why I got an Unauthorized Cargo complaint filed against this address late last night, and why my sergeant’s freaking out about classified materials?”

Groaning, Steve rubbed his face and ignored the petulant gurgle from his pre-breakfast, pre-coffee stomach.  “Was it Gingritch? Sand an’ Sun, please tell me it wasn’t Gingritch.”

“…officially, I can’t tell-”

“Fuck that asshole.  Seriously, is this the repayment I get for putting up with how much he stomps on my ceiling?”

Sam’s wry smile nearly made Steve laugh.  “We call them the Frequent Fliers. Never seem to be happy.  But I have a report of you and an older man unloading a large, unmarked crate.  I have to at least come out here and see what’s what before I can mark it resolved in our database.”

“I, uh…”

“Steve.”

Sam knew all his tells.  He’d know if Steve tried to lie.  Something cold and jarring clamped around Steve’s heart as he tried to figure out what to say.

Before he could get a word out, a strange man walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips and his water-darkened brown hair dripping all over his shoulders.  His left arm – or, rather, what remained of it – was buried in a second towel that wrapped around his bicep and shoulder, pinned tightly to his side by his stumpy arm. Silver-blue eyes widened as he noticed Sam.  Glancing down at the towel around his waist, he adjusted it tighter around himself and blushed slightly.

“Sorry, Steve.  Didn’t know you were gonna have company over or I would’a put on some pants.”

“I- but- it’s-”  Steve’s brain nearly short-circuited as he stared at the… at _Bucky._

“James Barnes,” Bucky said, flashing his teeth in a smile toward Sam.  “I’d shake your hand, but…” He shrugged his towel-wrapped shoulder and nodded at it apologetically.  “I’ll spare you the details.”

Thankfully, Sam laughed.  “Nah, it’s cool. Please tell me it wasn’t _you_ in that box last night.”

“Nope, just some of my belongings.”  Bucky was a surprisingly smooth liar, and whatever he did to make himself look human… he was embarrassingly lifelike.  “Mostly gadgets and whatnot, stuff from my academy days. Keepsakes, you know. We’re staying here until I get a job and we can afford a better place.”

Turning to Steve, Sam raised an eyebrow.  “You never mentioned a steady.”

“It’s a new development,” Steve mumbled, scratching at the back of his burning neck.

“I, uh…”  Bucky shrugged and gave Sam a shy half-smile.  “Haven’t told my folks I’m…”

“Got it.”

Awkward silence filled the room until Sam cleared his throat.  “Steve, go take a piss.”

“…what?”

“This is my not-so-subtle way of telling you I’m gonna give your boy the shovel talk, and you better get gone in the next ten seconds.”

Steve skedaddled into the bathroom and closed the door.

Sam cleared his throat.  “So.”

“Can I put some pants on first?” Bucky asked blandly.

“How’d you lose the arm?”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to interrogate cripples?”

Snorting, Sam rolled his eyes.  “I could call you a _lot_ of things, Barnes, but ‘cripple’ isn’t one of them.  You look like you bench landhoppers for breakfast, and that’s just with one arm.”

Bucky didn’t respond other than blinking a few times and raising an eyebrow.

“This is the part where I tell you that if you hurt him-”

“You’ll kill me, yeah.  I’d like to see you try.”  His tone was mild and he kept his posture casual and relaxed as he regarded Sam calmly.  “I’m not going to tell you about my family, where I come from, what school I was in, or what my career used to be, Keeper.  What I _will_ tell you is that you’d better think long an’ hard before you threaten me.”

“You do realize that threatening a Keeper is a criminal offense.”

“I’m not threatening you.  Just a friendly warning: I lost my arm fighting something _much_ worse than a gang of overgrown mall cops in the lowest bidder’s body armor.”

Sam stared at him, nonplussed, for several seconds before finally breaking into a gap-toothed smile.  He shook his head and laughed. “I can see why Steve likes you. Keep him out of trouble, you hear me?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“See that you do.  Now go put some damn pants on.”

The bathroom door opened a bit too quickly when Bucky knocked on it, and Steve squeezed by as he gave the android a baffled look.

As soon as the bathroom door shut again, Sam sighed and dragged his hands over his face.  “Well. I think I’m going to mark this one as resolved. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Next time I’ve got a weekend off, let’s grab lunch or coffee or something, yeah?” Sam asked quietly, glancing up at Steve as he secured the strap on his wrist computer.  “Clearly, I’ve been out of your life for way too long.”

“I- yeah.  Yeah, sure.”

As Sam reached up and tapped the button to power on the comm encircling his left ear, his shoulders straightened.  “Make sure to report any salvaged material from now on, Rogers. You know why we have the Customs Exchanges.”

“Understood, _Keeper.”_  He couldn’t resist a slightly baffled smile as he closed the door behind Sam, though, and leaned against it for several long seconds before turning back around.

Bucky emerged from the bathroom again, this time mostly back in the state Steve had found him in.  His featureless, blank, black faceplate was replaced with the broad, friendly face he’d somehow worn during Sam’s visit.  Small white panels covered the tip of his chin and the corners of his jaw on each side.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Steve finally managed.

A thin brown eyebrow arched up.   **“Robot assassin.”**

“Okay, okay.  Smartass.”

Bucky held up the towels he’d used, clearly at a loss of what to do with them.   **“Holographic panels enable me to change my appearance at will.  The effect is undetectable to most instrumentation. Full projection requires significant energy expenditure.”**

“So now Sam thinks I have a one-armed boyfriend living with me.”

The towels didn’t waver as Bucky still held them out.  Steve finally took them from him and tossed them on the bed.

**“…did I act in error?”**

“No.  No, that was… probably the best that could have gone.”

**“Define parameter: best.”**

“Seriously?”  When Bucky simply blinked impassively at him, Steve sighed and shuffled over to his mini-kitchenette to pull out something to eat.  “Well, we don’t have a full team of Keepers descending on the apartment – or at least, not yet, since Sam doesn’t have any reason to think you’re not human.”  He found a bag of something that would resemble scrambled eggs once rehydrated and reheated. “I don’t know what you are, to be honest, but I’m pretty sure it’s something that Oversight would rather have locked up.”

**“Classification: combat drone.  Assignment: covert operations.”**

Steve curled his lip slightly at the weird yellowish sludge he ended up with, but… food was food.  “Yeah, from a war nobody remembers. We don’t even know how old those airships are. Best guess I have to go off of is your last-accessed date and the prepacked meals I found next to you.”

He sat down heavily on his bed, and Bucky padded almost silently over to the desk.  Carefully, he levered open Steve’s laptop and began gently tapping away at the keys.

**“External communications disabled, unable to access network.”**

“I ain’t stupid.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to his and he gave Steve a look that just said, _really?_

“I think I preferred you without a face.”

“Yeah, well, suck it up, pal.”  The difference between his ‘human’ voice and his normal, flattened tone was jarring, despite the pleasant tenor he now spoke in.

“Were you programmed with that sass, or is that something that just happened?”

**“I… have several projection skins installed.  They are also paired with voiceprints and personality parameters.”**

“So… why’d you choose that one?”

Bucky frowned slightly, his eyebrows pinching together.   **“It had the highest usage count.  I suppose it must have been my favorite.  Primary memory… I don’t know.”** His hand hovered over the keyboard for a few seconds before he began typing again.   **“Requesting access to external communications.”**

“That’s not a good idea, not on that machine.”

**“Proprietary information?”**

“Illegal information, most likely.”  Steve shrugged. “Most of what I scavenge doesn’t have any data storage, but what does, I make copies of before I do a wipe.  I haven’t looked through all of it, but it’s probably a safe bet that there’s something in there that I’m not supposed to know.”

**“You don’t have a firewall?”**

“What do you take me for?”

“Reckless punk who can’t keep his hands off shiny shit.”

He laughed despite himself.  “You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

“Blame my programming.”  Bucky chewed his lower lip in concentration as his fingers danced over the keys.   **“Firewall engaged.  External communications enabled.”**

“…you what?”

 **“Your firewall wasn’t strong enough.  This one is.”**  Reaching under the desk, Bucky disconnected the charging cable he’d used last night, then hooked himself up directly to the laptop.  When he noticed Steve’s perplexed stare, he half-shrugged. **“Faster than typing with one hand.”**

Steve snorted and scooped the remnants of his breakfast into his mouth, then set his dishes in the sink.  He busied himself tidying up his meager belongings while Bucky sat motionless at his desk, eyes flickering as he absorbing information directly from the network.

Almost an hour later, Bucky finally stirred, disconnected himself with a half-choked, uncomfortable noise, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“You okay, buddy?”

He rubbed over his eyes with his hand and grimaced.   **“Significant quantity of data, most of it encrypted.  Data that… there is a reason the average citizen does not know.  Primary memory unit malfunction is permanent, but the backup unit has been partially restored via cross-reference.”**

“…data like what?”

The android didn’t respond for several seconds, but finally raised his head and looked directly at Steve.   **“My war is over, but I’m still a soldier.  Please let me protect you from this.”**

“Protect me from _what?”_

**“Steve.”**

“What are you not telling me?  What are those ships out in the desert?  What _happened?”_

 **_“Steve.”_ ** Bucky stood, his hand splayed out flat on the desk.

Throwing his arms out to the side, Steve barely remembered not to shout – the sound would carry through his thin walls into the neighboring units.  “What are you trying to protect me from?”

 **“Myself.”**  And then, as if it was an explanation, Bucky looked at the floor and added, **“I had high value targets.”**

“High value targets that nobody _remembers.”_

**“You would remember them, if I told you.”**

“So, tell me!”

 **“No.”**  Bucky’s refusal was quiet and mild, but a refusal nonetheless.  He closed his eyes and shook his head. **“If you order me to, I am required to comply.”**  Features pinching in something resembling pain, his fans spun down for a minute, almost like a sigh.   **“Please don’t order me to tell you.”**

“…okay.  Okay. I’m sorry.”

The android sat back down at the desk and braced his hand against his knee.   **“Thank you.”**

They stood – and sat – there for almost a minute before Steve finally broke the silence.  “You got enough power in you to keep your holograms on for a few hours?”

**“Affirmative.”**

“Good.  Can you project clothes, too?”

Bucky shook his head.

“Well, shit.”  Crossing over to his dresser, Steve took a deep breath before reaching for the drawer he hadn’t opened in over a year.  “Uh, these belonged to my ex. See if something fits.”

Bucky’s fans spun back up and his joints whirred quietly as he stood.  When Steve turned to look, he nearly jumped out of his skin and turned away just as rapidly.  “Sand an’ Sun, warn a guy before you turn your hologram on next time!”

Puzzled, the android slowly walked toward the dresser and bent over to pull out an outfit.   **“My apologies.”**

Steve laughed awkwardly and scooted backward on his bed to give Bucky more room.  “Man, they really didn’t skimp, did they?” He stared pointedly up at the ceiling.

 **“I am… not sure what you mean.”**  Quiet _shuffs_ told Steve that Bucky was pulling on a pair of Brock’s old, worn jeans.  After a few seconds of silence, Bucky let out an exasperated snort and shifted his weight to the other leg.   **“Requesting assistance.”**

Swearing under his breath, Steve knee-walked across the bed over to the android and fumbled through helping him to zip up the fly and button his jeans as quickly as he could.  “So that’s, uh, that’s not just a normal hologram, is it?”

 **“Hard light,”** Bucky confirmed.   **“Improved tactile response.  Is something wrong?”**

“No, no, it’s fine, you’ve just-”  Letting out another high-pitched laugh, Steve pulled a hand over his face.  “Did they have to give you a dick?”

Bucky blinked at him a few times before his face relaxed into a sly smirk.  “Ya like whatcha see, pal?” He quickly sobered, though. **“Sometimes I had to use alternative methods to get close to my targets.  For certain… activities… I had to be indistinguishable from an organic operative.”**

“So, you’ve…”

He shrugged again.   **“I have a subroutine associated with it.  Given the access records, it’s safe to make an assumption.”**  

Steve swallowed and scratched at the back of his neck uncomfortably, then pointed at the glitchy, flickering hologram winking in and out like Christmas lights on Bucky’s left arm.  “Need any help with that?”

 **“Low priority.”** Bucky frowned at the long-sleeve t-shirt for a few seconds before tugging it on with surprising efficiency.  He worked the fabric around his shoulder until it settled properly, then lifted his stump and looked back up at Steve.   **“Do you have any pins?”**  The half-empty sleeve swung gently under the remnants of Bucky’s left arm.

“Yeah, sure.  Hold on a sec.”

 **“What’s next?”** Bucky asked as Steve pinned the fabric up.

“There’s a guy I know, he buys most of the mechanical stuff that I can’t sell at the Customs Exchange.  Might have some ideas for your arm. Give me a bit to get changed and we’ll be ready to go.”


	4. Chapter 4

To anyone else’s eyes, the tall, one-armed man with long brown hair walking next to Little Rogers was as human as it got.

Steve noticed a difference in the air of the market with Bucky by his side; the throng that usually pressed in on him and jostled him about left them with a comfortable bubble as they made their way towards the shops in the back.  A glance at Bucky told him why; the big android gave off the air of a prematurely retired Keeper.

No one messed with the Keepers, especially those that were too young to have retired from old age.

Bucky kept Steve on his left at all times, and on a few occasions, he lifted his stump and nudged the smaller man this way or that to keep him from bumping into a potential aggressor.  He could tell simply from the mildly predatory glances that few of the market’s merchants valued Steve for anything more than his scavenging skills.

“How much further?” he muttered to Steve, narrowing his eyes at an overly-tattooed merchant who stared just a moment too long.

“Just over there.”  Steve raised a hand and pointed to a roll-up door set into the rough-hewn bedrock.  A large red and gold wrench suspended above the doorway served as the shop sign.  “Tony’s got a good eye for this sort of thing.”

They finally broke out of the dense foot traffic, and Steve led Bucky confidently through the door into Tony’s shop.

Sparks from a welder arced through the air as well as something that Bucky’s earlier trip through the network helped him identify as positively ancient rock music.  They waited patiently until the sparks stopped flying, then a head popped up from behind a mass of metal and plastanium.

Steve waved at Tony as the other man set down his welding torch and pushed the mask up and away from his face.

“Rogers!  Good to see you.  Whatcha got for me this time around?”

“This is Bucky.”  Gesturing to the large android, Steve grinned.  “He needs a new arm.”

Tony pulled a face and crossed his arms.  “I don’t do wetware.”  Something on Steve’s face caught his attention, though, and he sighed.  Picking up a clear-screened tablet, Tony circled around whatever he’d been working on and held it up.  “Mind if I take a… well, _shit.”_   His face twisted in alarm at something he saw on the screen.  Looking back up, he peered at Bucky, narrowed his eyes, then took a startled step backward.

“Tony?”

“Get him out of my shop.”

“What?  Are you serious?”

“Get him out of my shop,” the mechanic repeated, more forcefully this time.  “I mean it.  Get out of here and don’t come back.”

“Tony-”

“Rogers.  Leave.  _Now.”_

“Come on, Steve.”  Bucky gently hooked his hand around Steve’s elbow and pulled.  “Let’s go.”

Fuming, Steve allowed himself to be dragged away.  Bucky quickly led him through the flow of foot traffic and into a secluded corner of the market, out of the way and out of sight.

“Take a breath, Steve.”  Bucky’s large hand pressed flat against his chest.  “Your heart rate is outside safe parameters.”

“What the _sand_ was that about with Tony?” Steve growled, tilting his head back.

“He knew wha- who I am.”

“You said you couldn’t be-”

 _“Most_ instrumentation.”  Stepping to the side, Bucky leaned against the wall next to Steve.  “He must have been able to see the energy pulses I emit.”

“Well, this is bad.”

“Should we expect another visit from Keeper Wilson?”

Steve thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.  “No, I don’t think Tony would report it.  Would he?  Ugh, I really don’t know him as well as I thought I did, apparently.  If he does report it, it’ll be the Keepers and the Monitors, a full squadron.”

“I can handle them.”

“Not with one arm, you can’t.  Oh, Sand and Sun, Tony was supposed to _help_ you, not-”

“I’ve handled worse than a mechanic with delusions of grandeur,” Bucky grumbled.  He tugged his hand through his hair, the holograms shifting and moving so naturally as to be indistinguishable from the real thing.  “Why do you define ‘functional’ as having two arms?  Why are you so interested in repairing the damage?”

Looking down at his scratched up, callused, scarred hands, Steve smiled wistfully.  “Because it’s what I do.  I fix things.”  He laced his fingers together behind his neck.  “It earns more money than being an artist, that’s for sure.”

“…artist?”

“Childhood dream,” he said dismissively; it took effort to hide how much it hurt that he hadn’t picked up his sketchbook properly in years.  “It isn’t important.”

Bucky hummed noncommittally, then poked at Steve’s scavenger bag.  “We’ll need money first either way, and you have goods to sell.”

Nodding, Steve flipped the flap open and began rummaging around.  “If we get the raw materials, I can build something for about half the price of buying a finished assembly.”  He pulled out the scrap of material he’d sliced off the large panel, then frowned at it.  “I have no idea what this is, though.”

“Insulation for exocraft.”  Bucky reached out and pinched the rubbery black material thoughtfully.  “Fireproof, coldproof, and blocks most weaker radio signals.”

“Any idea how much it’s worth?”

“Yes, because I downloaded the current price tables for the raw materials exchange when I was browsing for intel on my past.”  Bucky gave him a flat look, then rolled his eyes.  “You’ll have to talk to a merchant.

They didn’t have any luck – either the demand for exocraft insulation really was as laughable as it seemed, or no one had any idea what the dense black rubber-like material actually was.

Tapping it against his leg in frustration, Steve scowled as he scanned the market for another possible buyer.  “Well, at least this saves me the trouble of having to make the trip out to get more.”

Bucky hummed quietly, tense and alert to every movement of the throng of people around them, one hand on Steve’s shoulder.  “The sooner we get out of here, the better.  I don’t like being this exposed.”  His hand tightened fractionally, the only warning Steve got before someone spoke behind him.

“Hey, boy.  You have more of that?”

Steve spun around and nearly lost his balance when Bucky stepped between him and the stranger.  He scrambled and eventually got a fistful of the back of Bucky’s shirt, then pulled himself upright and nudged the android.  When Bucky didn’t move, Steve sighed, then poked his head around the truncated arm.

“Depends.”

The newcomer, lean and lanky and roughened in the way many of the market’s patrons were, tilted his head to the side.  He worked his lips around his stubby, half-smoked cigarette, tiny curls of smoke escaping whenever his lips parted.  A long mechanic’s coat so stained that Steve couldn’t tell what color it actually was hung loosely on his shoulders, half-covering a bare chest.  Oil-stained pants and heavy work boots marked him as solidly in the labor class, as well as the startlingly clean and sturdy welding goggles holding a wiry mass of slicked-back brown hair in place.

“Depends on what?”

“How much you gonna pay me for it?”

The man held out a knobbly, scarred-up hand, then shot Bucky a put-upon look when the android scuffed a foot back into a ready stance.  “I am ship’s mechanic, not robber.”  His voice rolled with a subtle burr that Steve couldn’t identify.

Steve patted Bucky on the shoulder.  “It’s okay.”  He ignored Bucky’s tense posture and wormed his way past to offer the piece of insulation to the newcomer.

“My name is Aleksandr,” the man offered, turning over the insulation in his hands.  “Most people call me Zanny.  Where do you find this?”

“There’s a… wreck.  It’s about fifty kliks out.”

“There’s enough to outfit at least two Corvette-class exocraft,” Bucky added quietly.

“How soon you have more?”

Chewing his lip, Steve shifted his weight to the side.  “It’s a full day’s walk each way, plus a day for collecting, so… three days, if nothing goes wrong.”

“Hm.”  Zanny pulled a lighter out of one of his numerous pockets, flicked it open, and held the end of the chunk of insulation in the flame for nearly ten seconds.  Satisfied that it was fireproof, he nodded.  “I take you there, we collect faster, yes?”

“I… suppose.  Uh… give me a second.”  Steve tugged Bucky away, holding up one finger and praying Zanny stayed where he was.  He looked up at Bucky and scrunched his face up.  “Thoughts?  Can we trust him?”

Bucky blinked flatly at him a few times.  “You need the money.”

“Not what I asked.”

The android glanced over at Zanny – a motion more for Steve’s benefit than anything else – and nodded subtly.  “I’m not picking anything up that indicates lies or malintent.”  He paused, then gave Steve a half-smile.  “If it helps, he poses no threat to me, and by extension, you.”

“You see, I’m not sure if you’re just being confident or if you really are that cocky.”  With that, Steve turned back to Zanny.  “When do you want to leave?”

“The Keepers, they are after you and your merchandise, yes?” he asked with surprising nonchalance, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.  Steve’s blood ran cold when he saw the telltale gray-blue helmets weaving their way into the crowd.  His reaction must have been answer enough, because Zanny chuckled and herded them forward, holding his hands out to shoo them along.  “We leave now.”


End file.
